Muses Behaving Badly: The King Arthur Saga
by Shannon Vega
Summary: COMPLETE! A fanfiction writer's King Arthur muses show up in tangible form at her house and chaos ensues. This is pure fluff and not meant to be seen as autobiographical or as real. Just a bit of fun to give my brain a break from drama stories.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. Trust me, I own nothing. I am just a slave on the wheel of destiny. Okay, maybe not. But it's still not worth a nickel to sue me if you don't like the stories I write. King Arthur and all of the non-original stuff belongs to other people and their depictions in my stories are in no way meant to bring about lawsuits or therapy. _

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_Author's Note: No, I am not actually the character in this story, it's just in first person. My muses are not tangible. If they were, my husband would probably divorce me. This story is just something for fun. I don't know if it's going anywhere and I just hope this makes my readers smile. _

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**Muses Behaving Badly**

**Chapter One: Raiding The Kitchen**

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I sat on the back steps, bored as I took in the empty yard. My family was visiting my grandparents in Massachusetts and I had no idea what to do with myself as I had been left behind to work on schoolwork and was officially school worked out after three days on my own and more than three weeks left of solitude. I could always write fanfic--Lord knows that I had four stories in progress and hadn't made any headway on any of them.

That's when I felt the tap on my shoulder. Glancing over my shoulder, my eyes widened as I came nose to nose with Lancelot. He smirked as a blush rose in my cheeks and damned if the man wasn't watching my ass as I stormed back into the house. Sure enough, my kitchen was being raided by the remaining five Sarmatian knights and their half-Roman, half-Briton commander.

"Everyone stop!" I shouted, hands on hips in my most intimidating stance. Heck, it worked on my two-year old sister, it should work on seven burly, gorgeous men, right? Ah, no dice.

"Bridget!" shouted Galahad, seizing me around my waist and spinning me around, his youthful face glowing with pleasure.

I grinned down at the youngest knight. "Hi. Um, mind putting me down?" I asked, realizing that my feet were dangling about three inches above the ceramic tile of my kitchen. Did I mention that I'm short?

Galahad's grin widened and he set me down. Now I should explain something. My muses have a habit of showing up in tangible form. They tend to appear out of nowhere whenever I get the urge to write some more about whatever genre I'm writing on. Most of my other muses have the courtesy to just show up in my dreams, turning them X-Rated as often as not.

My King Arthur muses are not like that. They appear wherever they damned well please, play with my baby sister, eat my food and watch my DirecTV. Which explained why I now had seven knights in my kitchen.

I spotted Dagonet eying my chocolate ice cream with curiosity. "Don't even think about that, Dagonet. That is PMS medicine right there," I warned, grabbing the ice cream and pulling it to my chest. He grinned and reached into a box of Godiva chocolate truffles that was in the refrigerator. I groaned--I had forgotten about the truffles and since I hadn't told him that they were off-limit, he had every right to take one. I looked up and met his teasing blue eyes just before he popped the truffle into my mouth.

I chewed thoughtfully, allowing the chocolate to melt on my tongue, and nodded my thanks at the Sarmatian healer. Sticking the ice cream back into the freezer I stepped to the sink and began to wash dishes, chewing as I worked.

"Bridget?" came the commanding voice of Arthur.

I swallowed the chocolate and smiled at the future king of the Britons. "Yup?"

"Why haven't you written about us?" he asked, leaning against the kitchen island.

I glanced over my shoulder and found all the knights listening intently. "Well…" I couldn't come up with a good reason except that I was completely swamped with term papers and had gotten distracted watching Titus Pullo on Rome. "I have a lot of work to do."

Tristan paused in taking a bite out of a pear and shot me a questioning look. How he could communicate a hundred questions with those brown eyes was beyond me. I suddenly felt very guilty.

Great, I was getting interrogated and made to feel guilty by hallucinations.

"And this work has more allure than us?" asked Gawain, powerful forearms resting on the granite countertop.

I blew out an exasperated breath. Was he kidding? "According to my professors it is." I turned on my heel and ran smack dab into Lancelot. "I need to put a bell on you," I muttered darkly as I stepped around him, ignoring his smirk.

I headed into the living room, eyes widening as I saw what Bors was doing.

Bors had taken up his normal spot in the recliner in front of the television and was clicking through the channels. Hitting the button for the DVD player, he started one of the episodes of Rome where I had left it. "DAG!" he shouted.

I groaned, covering my eyes as Dagonet strolled into the living room to find the actor who portrayed him ravishing a prostitute and pouring wine on her back in one of the early episodes of Rome. I was so going to hell.

Dagonet cleared his throat, trying to get my attention.

I peaked through my fingers. "What? I need inspiration for your trysts!" I sputtered. I did not need to justify myself to imaginary but flesh and blood men, I reminded myself. Turning I found myself facing Gawain, a tawny brow raised.

"And where do you get the inspiration for the rest of us?" asked the golden-haired knight.

I blushed, hating myself for blushing, and stomped past him. I had things to do, I reminded myself. "You all have to leave. I have a paper on sharks for historical geology, a paper on Langston Hughes for English, and a paper on Roman art for art history that all have to be done before the end of break," I admitted, ticking off the half-finished projects on my fingers. "I do not have time to explain myself to you."

Bors paused the DVD and looked at me. "What do you mean you do not have time?" he roared, rising from the recliner.

That got me to turn, fear registering on my face. That man could make Hannibal Lecter shudder, I decided. "Okay, I will make time. Just not right now?" I begged, backing up from the oldest of the knights.

He leaned towards me, one hand braced against the wall behind me that I had backed up into. "On one condition," he growled.

I blinked nervously. Bors was not the one usually who gave me this much trouble. Then again maybe I deserved it. I had, after all, given him twins in my last story.

"No more children."

I nodded and slipped sidways away from Bors. "No more children. I promise," I babbled, still backing away. "Thirteen's the maximum," I promised.

Dagonet came out of the living room, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Well, that explains a lot."

I looked at the normally silent knight with more than a little trepidation. "What makes sense?"

He grinned wickedly.

I was in so much trouble.

**TBC...**

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	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. Trust me, I own nothing. I am just a slave on the wheel of destiny. Okay, maybe not. But it's still not worth a nickel to sue me if you don't like the stories I write. King Arthur and all of the non-original stuff belongs to other people and their depictions in my stories are in no way meant to bring about lawsuits or therapy. _

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_Author's Note: I'm having more fun than should be allowed writing this. Thank you for reading. _

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**Muses Behaving Badly**

**Chapter Two: Hiding In Plain Sight**

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How I managed to get clear of the knights is kind of fuzzy. One minute Dagonet was giving me a wolfish grin and the next thing I knew I was locked in the bathroom, starting a mantra under my breath. "Dark Angel. Max and Alec. Superatural. Dean and anything female with a pulse. Magnificent Seven. Ezra, Buck, Chris, Josiah. Stargate. Sam and Jack. Daniel and Janet." So far it was working. Chanting out all the ficdoms that I wrote about was keeping my mind off King Arthur.

A thud against the door and I knew the problem. I had just thought of the knights while congratulating myself on not thinking about them.

"My lady, you have to come out." Trust Arthur to begin the hostage negotiations with my bathroom.

I shook my head, my legs braced against the inward-swinging door and back braced against the bathtub. "Over my dead and rotting corpse. A body can live for weeks without food. And I'm not coming out until you all go back to the far reaches of my brain." I sounded peevish to my own ears and I winced.

"Dagonet," called Arthur.

Wood splintering above me had me scurrying backwards to land in the bathtub, my eyes as round as saucers. I had not actually believed that Arthur and his kingly butt would order Dagonet to hack his way into the bathroom. A well-placed kick to the door and it swung open, showing me that all seven of those knights were crowded into the hallway.

"Mom's gonna kill me," I whimpered, looking around at the demolition that now filled the bathroom. I skittered back further, the back of my head thumping against the tiles. "Stay away. I'll never get my papers done if you stay," I whined.

Lancelot stepped into the bathroom, wood crunching under his boots, and sat on the toilet. "Why do you run from me?"

I frowned. Trust Lancelot to think this was all about him. "I was not running from you. I was running from all of you. Now get out of my bathroom."

Lancelot looked to Arthur, who nodded. Reaching into the shower, he turned on the tap.

"EEEEAAAAHHHH!" I shrieked as cold water poured down on me in the bathtub from the shower head. Dropping my head against my knees, I shook my head in resignation. "What are you all doing here?" I demanded, looking up through very wet hair that was now plastered over my eyes.

Dagonet set the axe on the vanity and leaned against the porcelain. "You thought of us. And you haven't written about us in months."

I nodded then dropped my head back down onto my jean clad knees. The water was icy and I was starting to shiver. My teeth set up a staccato beat, rattling my entire body. "Can I get out now?" I pleaded.

The men nodded, not seeming to realize what I had already realized. I was wearing a white shirt which would be sheer after my cold shower.

"Get out!" I ordered, pointing to the door.

Arthur spotted the sheer fabric on my arm and his eyes widened in understanding. There's a reason he got to be king. He was no dummy. "Men, let's go back to the kitchen."

Two minutes later I was alone in the bathroom again. Standing up, I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my chest before stepping through the shattered door and into the hallway. The men were in the kitchen and my room was the opposite direction. I scurried to my room, dropping my wet underwear, jeans and top into my hamper at high speed and pulling on a bra, camisole and jean shorts in record time. I knew these knights--be gone long enough and they come looking for you. I was sure as hell not gonna let any of those knights, especially Lancelot and his cold water shower butt see me naked.

Satisfied that all the important bits were covered I started towards the kitchen. The men were busy eating the leftovers that Mom had told me to eat. Yay, I didn't have to eat liver since Bors was chomping away happily on the last of Mom's liver dinner. I stepped into the kitchen, went straight for the refrigerator, and pulled out a 20 oz. of Diet Sunkist, twisting off the cap and taking a pull from the soda in one smooth action. The cap got tucked into my hip pocket so that I wouldn't lose the fizziness.

"What are you wearing?" asked Bors, giving me the "daddy voice." I kept forgetting that I was about the same age as his daughters in the movie.

"Clothes," I answered testily as I plopped in front of the computer and booted it up. "See, now I'm going to write. Satisfied? Can we please chalk this up to a psychotic break and send you boys back to the ether of my imagination?"

Gawain dropped onto the couch at the end nearest the couch and looked at me. I don't care what my brother says, Gawain is so much more than 'come, see, smash.' And with those blue puppy dog eyes I couldn't stay mad at him, even though I had no idea how to replace that door Dagonet had destroyed. "What will you write?" came the plummy voice of the golden-haired knight.

I stared at the screen as it came up, my skin coloring a rich rose hue when I realized that that the background of my screen was a shot of Gawain and fought the urge to run when Gawain's voice rumbled from the speakers of my computer telling Horton that God didn't live in Britain. Quickly clicking on the My Documents icon, I cleared the screen of the blue-eyed knight. "What?" I squeaked.

Gawain gave me an odd look. "What will you write?" he repeated.

I groaned as my mind blanked and came to a frightening realization.

Writer's block.

Damn.

**TBC...**

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	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. Trust me, I own nothing. I am just a slave on the wheel of destiny. Okay, maybe not. But it's still not worth a nickel to sue me if you don't like the stories I write. King Arthur and all of the non-original stuff belongs to other people and their depictions in my stories are in no way meant to bring about lawsuits or therapy. _

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_Author's Note: Thank you to my wonderful reviewers. I must also give credit for the inspiration of this story to Daydream1 for her "Siege of the School" story. Reading her story gave me the idea to do something a little different, especially since she has yet to update her story. If you get a chance, read her story. And please, for the love of whichever deity or idea you prefer, please send a review. They get me inspired and keep me going. _

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**Muses Behaving Badly**

**Chapter Three: Curfew**

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I winced as the keys jangled in the lock. Casting a careful glance over my shoulder at the still-empty street, I pushed open the front door of my house and scurried inside. The door shut heavily and I breathed a sigh of relief. Home. Dropping my purse on the floor, I began to struggle out of my coat.

Wait, why was I worried about making any noise? I was all alone, I reminded myself.

It had been a good night. Lots of alcohol had flowed at the club and my feet were aching from all the dancing that I'd done. As a reward for getting my bathroom door fixed with no questions asked, I'd agreed to go clubbing with my friends. Good friends who thought that the measure of a person could be taken by how many jello shots you could down. Apparently I was a _**very **_good friend.

Weaving just a tad and very glad that I'd taken a taxi to and from the club, I started towards my bedroom.

And slammed face-first into studded Sarmatian armor.

Landing on my butt had really not been part of tonight's entertainment.

"Where have you been?" growled Dagonet, fists on his hips and fixing me with the glare that put random Woads in their place and made little boys behave. Too bad it didn't work on drunken authoresses.

I glared up at the giant Sarmatian while rubbing my nose. Ouch. Damn it, I'd been good. I hadn't thought of the knights all day. Hadn't thought of them while at the club. Hadn't even thought of them in the taxi ride home. "OUT."

Bors, who had thundered from the kitchen at the sound of my butt hitting the floor, flanked Dagonet. "Out where, little one?"

Struggling to my feet, which is not easy in leather pants and stilettos, I glared at the two of them. "I was repaying the guys who fixed the door that you," I pointed to Dagonet, "destroyed."

"By whoring?" came the question from Galahad as he took in my outfit.

I growled and looked down. I had worn less to a club and never been called a whore. Gee, maybe it had to do something with the fact that I had fifth century knights judging my apparel that made the difference.

"I have not been _**whoring**_. I have been dancing, thank you very much." I blew a strand of hair out of my eyes and narrowed those selfsame eyes. "See if you ever get laid ever again in any of my stories. 'Have I been whoring?'" I mimicked angrily as I turned on my heel. Damned it I was going to let a bunch of mental phantoms pick on me. I had friends who could do that, thank you very much. "I'm going to have a peanut butter sandwich and then pass out. You all had better be gone by the time I become conscious tomorrow," I warned.

Pulling off my heels, I hurled them in them in the general direction of my room and started down the hallway to the kitchen. I stomped into the kitchen. Somehow I wasn't particularly surprised to find the three knights and one commander who hadn't yet had a chance to critique my outfit once again raiding my kitchen. Thank goodness that I'd done that grocery run.

"What?" I snapped, reaching past Gawain to get the peanut butter out of the cupboard near his ear. Reaching down into the drawer beside Arthur's hip for a butter knife, I waited for the onslaught of comments. None came. Yay, they've learned not to piss off a drunken authoress. Score one for four smart Dark Age men. Unscrewing the peanut butter, I dipped my index finger into the peanut butter and proceeded to suck the gooey yumminess off my finger.

"Go away," I ordered as I transferred the butter knife to the hand that was now slightly damp from my peanut butter tasting. Slathering a piece of bread with the peanut butter and smushing it against another, I lifted it to my mouth. This was my father's cure-all for a hangover--peanut butter. Taking a bite, I savored the peanutty goodness of the JIF peanut butter and wondered what JIF stood for.

"So, where were you?" asked Lancelot, leaning against the kitchen island.

I sighed. Who said that I didn't have a curfew. I may be twenty-one and a senior in college, but God forbid that I actually am treated like anything close to an adult by these men who populated my brain for my stories. "I was at an orgy," I offered bluntly, hip resting against the countertop and biting my lip to keep from laughing.

I didn't think that saying that would have so much impact. Though, thinking on it later, I should have known. I'm not a hottie and certainly no kind of romantic interest for any of them. I'm kind of like a little sister who knows way too much about them all. Way too much.

After the shouting had dropped to a low roar, I burst out laughing. "Kidding. As in not being serious. Geez, you guys really think I'd go to an orgy? Please." I dropped the knife into the sink. "There's such a think as STD's."

"STD's?" came the quiet question from Tristan. The scout was slouched in the doorway, braids almost hiding those gorgeous eyes. And some people wondered why I kept giving Tristan lots of women to love.

"Sexually transmitted diseased," I clarified, enunciating each word carefully. "Besides, some of us aren't looking to bed anything that moves," I added, glaring at Lancelot.

"You're drunk," Arthur commented, surprise edging his words.

I grimaced and took another bite of peanut butter sandwich. Trust the once and future king to catch my inebriation. I went to bed. If they were still there in the morning, I would deal with them in the morning.

TBC...

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**To My Wonderful Reviewers**

Saxongirl1345: So glad that you're enjoying this story as well. And glad that the knights are keeping in character. Don't worry, I haven't abandoned this story. Just got distracted by the "Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?" story.

Ysolde: Tristan comes to your house too? I know, our muses (and I speak collectively 'cause if we all didn't have muses none of the stuff we write would get written) tend to take over our lives. Or at least mine. Sorry to make Tristan grumpy.

Lady Marek: So glad that you're enjoying. Even the bit with Dag. Yes, you're supposed to giggle. And that's from one "old broad" to another. ;-)

mad.but.cute: So glad that you're enjoying. Don't worry, no Mary-Sue-ness.

xoon: Glad that you're enjoying. Nope, gonna avoid the whole Mary-Sue angle. After all, this is more of a "crack-fic" to deal with my muses when they don't want to cooperate on my drama stories. Thank you for reminding me to deal with that door. And, yes, nitpicker is a fun word.

broken mind: I apologize for the sore belly but I'm glad that you had a laugh at this story. And here's more. Hopefully it'll stay far-far-away from Mary-Suedom.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note: Thank you to my wonderful reviewers for all the great feedback. As to why the muses are able to interact with the physical world, it could be something about the authoress. Who knows how the mind works? _

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**Muses Behaving Badly**

**Chapter Four: Sex Gods**

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I was officially done. Well, except for the part where I took this stack of papers and assignments to the UPS store and sent them to my professors so that I could finally get the grades that had been delayed by the extensions required by my leave of absence.

Who knew that having appendicitis in the last month of the spring semester could wreak havoc with my schoolwork? However, and this was the best part, once my professors received my final assignments, I was done. Finito. After all, the exams had been done before, just not the final assignments. Tugging my hoodie on, I stepped out of the car and hustled across the parking lot to the UPS store.

It was a simple transaction. I pay an exorbitant amount of cash to the nice lady behind the counter and get a receipt with a tracking number. Yay.

Driving back to the house, the realization that I was finally done with school washed over me.

I was free.

Well, as free as a twenty-one year old could be.

But, I was free.

Which made me think of Tristan's hawk.

Which was why Tristan was now seated in the passenger seat, fiddling with the radio button.

"Leave that, Tris. I was listening to the song."

"Mindless blather. That was not music," he announced with finality as he spun through the dial. Finally coming to the channel that played all metal, all the time, he turned the volume up as far as it could go and proceeded to rock out.

Who knew that Tristan head-banged? And since when did he know how to do air guitar?

I turned my attention back to my driving.

And prayed that my eardrums wouldn't burst.

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I was going to kill them. All of them. I was going to burn that extra drive that held all of my stories and then I was going to swear off King Arthur and never, ever write about any of them at all.

Well, maybe Cerdic. He might be fun to write about.

When I opened the door to the house, Tristan following behind, I found myself walking into chaos. Knights and Saxon were squaring off.

Wait, Cerdic was corporeal too?

"Cerdic?" I called meekly, one hand resting on the wall for support.

Icy blue eyes flicked to me and a nod confirmed his identity.

Lovely.

"What are you doing here? Hell, what are any of you doing here?" I demanded, slamming the door shut and locking it. Although, on second thought, I probably should be on the other side of that door, locking all of these fifth century men away from me.

Bors sighed. He still wasn't thrilled with the aftereffects of his little hissy fit at my coming in well after midnight. Right now One was having a quite torrid affair with Jols, the knights' loyal squire. Take that, daddio. "You think of us, we come. Now why is Blondie here?"

Gawain glared at Bors, who pointed to Cerdic in explanation.

I squared my shoulders. "Because he's going to be in my next story."

Galahad gaped at me, though it might have been the aftereffects of sexual frustration. "You're writing about HIM?"

I nodded and pushed through the knights. "Yup. I'm going to be writing about Cerdic, the Saxon Sex-God," I added over my shoulder.

Cerdic smirked at the knights and followed after me down the hall towards the kitchen. Apparently Sex Gods needed to raid my kitchen too.

"You cannot do this. Bridget, for our friendship's sake."

I spun on my heel, glaring at Lancelot. "Don't even start with me, Lancelot. And stop quoting the movie. I'm not writing about you. Any of you. For a looooonnnnnngggg time." I patted his cheek then started for the kitchen again.

"So, Cerdic," I began, stepping into the kitchen. Then screamed. "You two, off the counter! How in Hades did you get Starbuck here?" I demanded, rubbing my forehead. Great, now I had other genres popping in for tea.

Cerdic grinned, helping a blushing Kara Thrace down from the counter. "You made me a sex god, authoress. You gave me the powers of a god. Which means that I can bring any of your muses into reality, just as you have made us real."

The banging of my head on the wall seemed to echo throughout the kitchen.

TBC...

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**To My Wonderful Reviewers**

Ysolde: Your banter back and forth is an inspiration. Yes, our conversations about our muses inspired the coming chapters. And I'm glad that Tristan is always nice to you. Just don't let him get the cat.

cleopatra32003: I suppose that it can sound kind of cool but it's no so much schizophrenia as something else. Not sure what but the muses have the ability to interact with the physical world. And here's more.

Saxongirl345: Yup, never a good idea to mix alcohol, authors, and knights. And I'm trying to be better about splitting my time between "Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?" and "Muses Behaving Badly…" There is more coming.


	5. Chapter 5

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**Muses Behaving Badly**

**Chapter Five: Orgy**

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Great, now the two Scandinavians were plotting against me. No, not Cyrnic and Cerdic, though I'm sure that at some point nancy-boy will show up as well. No, I'm talking about Tristan and Cerdic. Who knew they got on? And got on with most of the females of the fandoms I write about?

I, being the authoress that I am, was in my closet. Hiding. Behind a red Kinsale cloak that I was going to wear to the Renaissance faire. I'd ejected the women of my fandoms back to their genres with the persuasive threat that I would be pairing them with the most unusual person from their particular storylines with reckless abandon. It was amazing how quickly those chickies abandoned playing with Cerdic's and Tristan's braids and vamoosed to their appropriate corners of my brain.

"My lady?" came the voice of Arthur through the closet.

He opened the door and crouched down, green eyes spotting me behind the red velvet. "My lady, you must come out."

I shook my head, hair sticking to the velvet thanks to static electricity. "No, I don't. They had an orgy. On my bed." I pointed a shaky hand to my queen-sized bed, the sheets and comforter piled on the floor. "And then they--they," I dropped my head into my hands, unable to continue. "I know things about their anatomies that no one save their personal physician should know."

Arthur smiled apologetically and pulled me out of the closet, his calloused hand gripping my hand in an iron grasp. "Come, dear authoress, that contraption you call a phone is ringing."

I nodded, meekly following the Once and Future king from my bedroom. The phone was, indeed, ringing. I picked it up, cradling it between my shoulder and my cheek. "Hey," I offered listlessly.

The voice on the other end laughed. "Jeez, Brig, you'd think you'd died. What, did your 'muses' cause havoc again?"

I shrugged. "You could say that. What's up?"

"We're going to Renn Faire. You know this is opening weekend, right?"

I nodded more to myself than any belief that my friend could see me. "Yup. Need a driver?"

"Actually, thought you might want to play passenger and get wasted."

"Sounds lovely. I'll be over in an hour."

"Great."

Hanging up the phone, I found a cadre of knights and one Saxon standing around listening to my half of the conversation. Wonderful. "I'm going out."

"Where?" demanded Bors.

"Renn Faire. I will not be thinking of any of you while there. And, Tristan and Cerdic, I would appreciate if you would wash the sheets and comforters used in your---"

Arthur looked about to interrupt.

"Don't worry, Arthur. I have to come back. They close at 7 p.m. and won't let me stay overnight. And if anyone makes any comments about my alcohol consumption, I'm going to start writing slash."

That shut up all of them pretty damn fast.

TBC...

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**To My Wonderful Reviewers**

Ysolde: You are a trip. I hereby dedicate this story to you.

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	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

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**Muses Behaving Badly**

**Chapter Six: The Joys of Porn**

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"What do ya' do with a drunken sailor?" I belted out, pushing open the door with a little more force than absolutely necessary. It was nine p.m., I was sunburned, a little drunk, and still in my Rennie garb. Which meant that I'd been catcalled at from the time we left the fairgrounds until I got to my door. Corsets rocked for getting catcalls.

The hallway was clear of any debris and I headed towards the kitchen. The answering machine light was blinking so I hit the green button.

_"Hey, Bridget. It's your Mom. Hope that your schoolwork is going well. Your Grandma is still not feeling so hot. I'm sorry that we couldn't spend this summer with you. We'll call later to see how things are going. We love you!"_ came the singsong end of my mother's voicemail.

"She sounds nice," offered Cyrnic, the prince of the Saxons suddenly sitting at my kitchen island.

I shrugged and hit delete. "She is. So, whatcha doing here?" came the question as I moved to the sink. "Last I checked you were stuck in--boarding school?" I asked, waiting for confirmation.

The man of the strange braided beard nodded in confirmation.

"So, again, whatcha doing here?" I repeated, setting a glass of ice water before Cyrnic.

"Heard you were writing about the Saxons," he answered before he sipped the water, his eyes doing the quick elevator stare to take in the wonders of a corset.

Again I shrugged. At the moment I wasn't inspired to write anything, let alone write about Cerdic, the Sex God. "Haven't decided. That still doesn't explain why you're hear and none of the mad hatters are."

Cyrnic chuckled. On him it's this dark, malevolent thing, so I let him get away with it. "They're, how do you call it, watching porn."

The look on my face must have been priceless. "And you decided not to partake?" I asked, the tone of my voice carefully level.

Cyrnic again shrugged. "I've had slaves who did a more convincing job than the women in those movies."

Nodding at him, I stepped out of the kitchen. I headed towards the living room where I could hear hooting and laughter. Men didn't change, I decided. Whether they be from the fifth century or from the twenty-first, they were still dogs.

Stepping into the living room, I found Bors, Galahad, Gawain and Lancelot ogling and discussing the merits of the women on the flat screen TV. Tristan was quiet in the corner, eyes riveted to the screen but showing no other signs of interest. Dagonet was his self-controlled self, seated and watching but not shouting out at the antics of the porn actresses and actors. And Arthur looked ready to burst into flames if his blush was any indication. I looked around for Cerdic and found him. He was asleep. Guess he got bored.

"Gentlemen!" I shouted from the doorway.

Six guilty faces and one impassive faces swiveled towards my position.

"Turn off the grinding and get out. Oh, and wake up Cerdic. I wanna make sure he's alive before he leaves with you."

TBC...

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**To My Wonderful Reviewers**

Ysolde: May Tristan keep doing whatever he is doing with you that you enjoy. And thank you for introducing me to the music of Fields of the Nephilim. Very nice. And definitely inspiring.

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	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

Author's Note: Thank you, Ysolde. I love this idea of the Scafia. And thank you for challenging me to put it into the story. Oh, and say hi to Tristan for me.

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**Muses Behaving Badly**

**Chapter Seven: The Scafia**

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I stared at my nail polish, sitting on the dryer and waiting for my laundry to finish. I really didn't have to but I was bored. And the vibrations were kind of fun, I giggled to myself. I had, officially, nothing left to do. Well, except for clean up after THEM. They were officially THEM and they would stay THEM until after I had a lobotomy, I decided.

Thanks to a midnight IM chat session with a friend from Denmark, I officially understood why Cerdic and Tristan got on so well. It was the Scafia, the bizarre fact that Scandinavians tended to migrate to each other if for no other reason than they were Scandinavians.

Yes, the Scandinavian version of the Mafia without the criminal element. Hence the name. That was the only reason that I could come up with, honestly. Of course it had taken almost an hour for her to get me to understand that every nation in northern Europe wasn't part of the Scafia.

Hey, it was late and I was running on far too little caffeine. It didn't help that my friends had decided to see what was going on in my house and I'd had to banish the immortal nicknamed Death from my bedroom in haste.

Hey, I like Methos.

Sue me.

In any case, my friends had decided that what I desperately needed was a date.

Hence the nail polish.

In less than two hours I would be picked up by some blonde Adonis, according to my friends, who apparently spoke very little English and was just arm candy. I was under orders to get very drunk and possibly laid. Hopping down from the white appliance with not a little apprehension, I headed down the hallway, balancing on the balls of my feet so that my toes didn't touch the carpet and possibly smudge my polish. Laid. Wonderful, I groused, heading into the kitchen. It wasn't like I didn't get laid, I muttered to myself. I'd had sex last--that brought me to a halt.

And brought to me the horror-filled realization that imaginary muses springing from the darkest corners of my mind had far more sex than I did.

Sweet gods, I'm going to be sick.

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The house was blissfully quiet when I finally managed to push the door open and get inside. The date, if it could be called that, had been horrid. That's what I get for going on a date with--what the hell had he been? I knew a smattering of German and Danish and he hadn't spoken either. I hadn't been able to place his accent but I had been able to place his hands. They'd been everywhere.

There was an advantage to having muses who were big, strong, fierce men. It made self-defense second nature. That and I'd suddenly been struck with an Obi-Wan fic idea as I climbed into the taxi. Alone. It would have been hard for my so-called date to go anywhere with the damage I'd done to him.

There was going to be no second date.

"The Force is strong within you, little one," offered Obi-Wan from the doorway to my bedroom.

I raised an eyebrow and shook my head. I'd gotten used to the fact that all of my muses had taken it upon themselves to exercise the same liberties as my King Arthur muses. Though there were now ground rules.

No orgies.

No orgies unless I participated.

Which equated to no orgies.

"Well, Obi, don't know about the force but the Jagermeister is strong within me." I grinned at the padawan before me. "Ya know, I think I prefer you as the General," I admitted, leaning against the wall and watching as the muse morphed into his older version. "Very nice." Satisfied, I headed towards the kitchen before I came to a halt. "Obi, what do you know about the Scafia?"

Obi-Wan shuddered dramatically. "Enough. Why?"

I shook my head. It was bad form to mix fandoms, I knew. "Never mind. Hey, say hi to Qui-Gon, will ya?"

Obi-Wan Kenobi nodded and popped out of existence.

Just another night in my kitchen.

"From Jedi Knight to me," purred Lancelot.

Sweet Gods, I was going to have to take my brain and donate it. I wonder if they would take it used.

TBC...

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**To My Wonderful Reviewers**

Saxongirl345: No worries, just glad that you're liking this one. Never underestimate the ability of men to be dogs. And there's this wonderful thing called pay per view, which is how the boys got a porno. So glad that you liked the Cyrnic/Bridget chat--I was thinking of your stories when I wrote that scene.

Cleopatra32003: Oooh, bad visual of Cyrnic watching a porn flick with his dad. Eek. Fair enough.

Lady Marek: So glad you like this story. And, yes, I think that we all would love to be in the middle of that particular scene (damn, so tempting to turn this a Mary Sue but….must…resist). Well, yes, Arthur could demand to have it turned off but then again, it's all about learning. An exchange of ideas. And body fluids. So glad that you're enjoying.

Arden: So glad that you think I rock. Yay! So glad that you are enjoying the stories and I'm glad that you liked Tristan rocking out. Though I have it on good authority from another muse tender that he apparently sits in a corner with a small smile on his face. Oh, well. Had to get at least one thing wrong about the boy.

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	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

Author's Note: Ysolde, I want to know what Tristan meant in the review. Really. I do. 'Cause the Danish to English translation sites only gave me about four words out of it. And that didn't make sense. Okay, folks, you know the drill. Please review and I'll write more. And if you have ideas, tell me. Oh, and I apologize. Yes, I do have multiple fandoms just like the main character of this story and, yes, my muses tend to be rather forceful. Never been tied down to a bed by one yet, but damned if it isn't a thought.

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**Muses Behaving Badly**

**Chapter Eight: Death to Death**

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I was going to kill Death.

Hey, that kind of sounded fun and a bit oxymoronish.

Well, actually I was going to kill Methos, my Highlander muse.

As soon as I figured out how to get out of the ropes tying me to my bed.

Pulling again, I grunted in frustration and flopped back onto the bed. Great. I go to sleep and wake up with Methos grinning like a jack-o-lantern. Apparently he'd decided that the best way to deal with me, as his authoress, was to tie me down and then rant at me with storyline ideas.

That had been three hours ago.

Those three hours of diatribe done, he'd left and I'd been left tied to the bed with no way free.

I could hear someone in the hallway. "METHOS!" I shouted, lifting my head from the pillow to see if he was standing in the doorway.

"Not Methos," purred Lancelot, standing in the doorway. "Now this is intriguing. Shouldn't you be wearing only a blanket?" Trust Lancelot to remember the scene from Bull Durham. Damn him.

I shook my head, screwed my eyes shut and collapsed back onto the bed. "Unless you're carrying something sharp to cut me loose, not interested in anything you have to offer, Du Lac."

The knight padded across the bedroom and I felt the ropes slacken as he sliced through the ropes. "Why did he tie you to the bed?"

I opened my eyes and began to pull the ropes from my wrist. Sitting up, I untied the ropes around my ankles. "Methos wants a story focusing on him. He spent three hours telling me exactly what he wants to happen." Finally free of the ropes, I threw my legs over the side of the bed and ran for the bathroom, glad that I had worn my sheep pajamas to bed instead of something diaphanous and feminine. Last thing I needed was to look girly while being freed from being tied to my bed, I thought with a snort.

Ten minutes later I exited the bathroom and headed for the kitchen and something edible. Dagonet, bless him, was flipping flapjacks on the griddle of the stove and had a stack of delightful-looking pancakes on a plate already. Arthur was seated in the breakfast nook, reading the Washington Times while sipping something clearly alcoholic. Bors was napping on the couch, apparently taking a break from whatever strenuous activity he'd been participating in.

A quick glance at the clock on the oven told me that it was barely eleven in the morning. And that every single one of these men was imbibing something that underage people could be arrested for.

Oh, well, I thought, it's happy hour somewhere. Orange juice and vodka poured into glass made a screwdriver and I was soon seated at the kitchen island, eyeglasses perched on my nose and the work that paid my bills before me. See, I actually have to work for a living. Work from home but work nonetheless. I'm an editor.

And my latest writer had no concept of punctuation.

Joy.

My red pen was out and marking the papers before me, turning the pages bloody. Damn, I was going to be rewriting this from the ground up, I decided. Maybe I should just call my boss and tell him that the writer was crap and they should hire a ghostwriter.

"Is something wrong?" asked Galahad, looking up from the magazine he was reading. At least it wasn't one of my younger brother's skin mags--though it was a motorcycle magazine and was opened to a page with a busty blonde draped over an Indian. Damn, that was a fine bike.

I sighed and looked up, pushing my glasses higher on the bridge of my nose. "Punctuation? How hard is it to use a comma? A question mark? A period? Really, this is basic grammar," I groused.

Arthur looked up from the newspaper he was reading, frowning. "I would assume that it would not be hard," he offered, sipping his mug of something.

I nodded, agreeing with the king. "Yup. One would think so. However, this author-_insert author name here_--has no concept of punctuation. Or sentence structure. Or spelling." I sighed, my head drooping.

"Bridget?" came the cautious voice of Gawain in the living room behind me.

I turned towards the voice and gaped at the sight before me. "What is he doing?" I croaked.

Gawain cocked his head to one side, watching the scene playing out in my fenced backyard. "I believe that it is called Odinic sacrifice," he offered with a decided tone. Sometimes I really underestimate Gawain's intelligence.

I jumped down from the stool and bolted towards the sliding door and the backyard. Opening the door, I glared at Methos, who was currently suspended upside down from my apple tree with a Tristan in front of him, an evil grin on the scout's face. "Scafia boy! Leave Death alone!" I didn't care if the neighbors thought I was nuts. They had thought I was crazy for the past six years, so this would not be a change. "It's my job to torture him!"

Having Methos turned into ground beef would be very bad. Fun to watch, but very bad.

TBC...

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**To My Wonderful Reviewers**

Ysolde: Evil snicker? I want a translation. Please. Oh, and Tristan? No torture, okay?

Saxongirl345: Heck yeah! Yup, Scandinavians stick together. So glad you thought the last chapter was funny. Here's hoping it stays humorous. The alternative is just to frightening to fathom.

cleopatra32003: You're right, no one should feel bad about getting less than Bors or Lancelot or any of the others. And you might be right--more Scandinavians would definitely spell trouble for the "no orgies" rule.

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	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: See Chapter One. Ysolde:

Author's Note: Thank you to you all who have read and reviewed. Please keep this coming.

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**Muses Behaving Badly**

**Chapter Nine: Torture**

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I'd let Tristan torture Methos. I'm sure that somewhere my conscience was burning in the fires of Hades. Then again, maybe not. Ya' know, didn't know that Tristan was so…creative. May have to use that in a future story.

It hadn't helped that Galahad and Gawain had run a commentary of Tristan's **techniques **just like it was a rugby match. I now knew more about torture than anyone has a reason to. And that Tristan had apparently been watching the History Channel's specials about torture. Bors had taken to shouting out suggestions and Lancelot had decided that comforting me was the order of the day.

Comfort Lancelot-style is, well, intense. It requires a lot of running away.

That had taken up the rest of the afternoon, but Galahad had given me the highlights of Tristan's torture-episode.

Apparently Methos would be keeping a low profile from now.

And was never allowed to tie me to the bed again.

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The house was quiet and the muses were nowhere to be found. The computer had booted up, my earphones firmly in place so that if anyone was in the house all they would hear is my frantic typing. I had been struck by inspiration and I had to get this onto the hard drive before the idea escaped. It was a PWP, a oneshot, and decidedly on the lusty side and I didn't need to try to explain to any of the knights why I was doing what I was doing. Then again, maybe I could blame Tristan.

After all, it had been Tristan who participated in an orgy.

Hence the oneshot set premovie.

Arthur was gonna kill me--then again, maybe not. The man did tend to complain that he was treated as a monk before Gueneviere. Well, this story certainly painted a different picture.

Yup, a nice Roman/Briton/Sarmatian orgy.

Helped along by the fact that I was listening to the Rome and Gladiator soundtracks as I typed.

Finally done, I saved and stretched. My screensaver began to run and I chuckled as some of the fanart I'd worked on popped up.

Oh, yeah, I was going to hell.

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"No, Cerdic, that's not going to happen," I advised, eyes closed as I laid on the blanket in the backyard. I was taking a break from rewriting that horrendous manuscript with some well-deserved sunbathing. Skin cancer be damned, I wanted to have a tan.

The Saxon growled. Damned if he wasn't near as good as Tristan at the growling. That made me crack my eye open. Yup, he was glowering. And glaring at the quiet Tristan, who had come out with Cerdic to speak reason to me.

Hah. Reason. I scoff at your reality and replace it with my own.

"Cerdic, you're blocking my sun."

Cerdic dropped to the blanket beside me, looking out of place with his heavy clothes and furs. "You speak of him as if he is some kind of god. Always half-whispered."

I knew that my mouth had dropped open a bit. Lancelot I expect to quote the movie--not Cerdic. I shut my mouth and narrowed my eyes. "Um, Cerdic, that's because he is a god." I closed my eyes again. "And I'm not writing a story where the Scafia take over the world. Deal with it."

Mumbling told me that Cerdic wasn't pleased with that notion. Answering mumbling from Tristan seemed to share his opinion.

"Oh, and boys?"

"Yes, authoress," they growled.

I cracked open my eye again. "No torture."

Cerdic swept those blue eyes over me, assessing the fact that I was wearing almost nothing by Saxon standards. "Why?"

I frowned. "Why what?"

"Why not torture you?" Tristan asked, crouching at the end of the blanket while Cerdic stretched out beside me, that broad, muscled body relaxed but ready to strike.

I gulped. "Um, because I scream like a girl?"

Tristan grinned.

Cerdic chuckled.

That was not a comforting sound.

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"WHAT IS THIS!" shrieked Arthur, gaping at the printout that Gawain had handed him.

I looked up from the dinner I was cooking, smiling. "Ah, so you're reading it. Like?"

Arthur had turned an interesting shade of fuchsia. "Like? No, Bridget, I do not like! You've turned me into a whore."

I set down that spoon that had been stirring the stew and shook my head. "No, Arthur, I've turned you into a boy-toy. A powerful, sexy boy-toy, but a boy-toy, not a whore. You had sex with…" I paused while mentally counting his partners in that story, "three women. And you were good." I shrugged, turning back to dinner. "You're the one who keeps complaining that we writers cast you as a monk before you met Gueneviere."

Arthur's mouth was opening and closing like a fish as he tried to respond.

"When did you write this?" asked Bors, eyes scanning his copy of the story.

"Last night," I replied, setting the lid back on the pot. "I got inspired."

Gawain had leafed through page eleven before he looked up. "And who in the name of the gods of our fathers inspired you to write this?"

"Hello," offered Cyrnic, strolling into the kitchen and hopping up onto the counter. "Ah, so you read it. She didn't do half-bad," he offered, looking at me as I preened under his attention.

"You?" squeaked Galahad.

Cyrnic nodded and sampled the stew from the cooking spoon. "Good but needs salt," he advised to me before turning his attention to the youngest knight. "Aye. Me. In return for her starting on the Saxon Sex Gods story. A worthy trade, I believe," he finished.

TBC...

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**To My Wonderful Reviewers**

Ysolde: Interesting translation, though if Tristan is trying to scare me, he's gonna have to work harder. As to choosing between torturing you or Death, I've got Death tied to the apple tree and waiting for Tristan's best efforts. Have at him, Tristan. I'll sacrifice a muse over a friend and reviewer anyday. Have fun with the _row _and here's hoping you are still enjoying.

Cleopatra32003: Believe it or not, but I completely spaced on the apple part of the tree when I was writing. Guess that means that my muses are taking action in the writing of this story. So glad you are enjoying.

Arden Skysender: Yes, muses can be rather difficult when they don't get the attention they feel that they deserve. Mine have a nasty habit of popping in while at work and taking calls from cursing customers. Makes it hard to show empathy when I'm trying not to laugh at a storyline. So glad that you're enjoying since this one is kind of just a little bit of freaky fluff.

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	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

Author's Note: My husband complained that this story had no direction. So this is kind of plot. Of course this story is not supposed to have any plot, so I'm breaking the rules. Again, thank you for your wonderful reviews. And please, keep those reviews coming. Please. Yeah, I'm begging. Apparently I do it a lot. Deal. Oh, and as always, responses to your wonderful reviews are at the end of the chapter.

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**Muses Behaving Badly**

**Chapter Ten: Change of Plans**

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"Mom," I whined into the phone, twisting the cord around my finger. "You guys won't be home all summer?" I asked.

I heard Mom sigh. "I know, honey, I wish we could come home too. But we've got to help your grandparents and you can take care of yourself back home. You know we'd come home if we could. And we'll come home by September. Just pay the bills for us and keep the home fires burning."

I nodded, sighing. "Okay, Mom. Just give everyone a hug and a kiss, okay?" I perched on the stool at the island. A kiss echoed over the phone line before it disconnected and I stared at the phone.

"Shit." Hanging the phone up, I let my head drop into my hands. I really had hoped to spend the summer with my family for the last time before I moved out and got my own non-university apartment.

"Bad news?" asked Cyrnic. Somehow Cerdic's son always appeared for the mother-daughter phone call.

I nodded. "Yeah. I'm on my own for the duration of the summer." I stared down at the kitchen island, tracing a pattern across the granite. I looked up, sighing. "You're not half as creepy as you are in the movie."

Cyrnic guffawed, the sound bubbling from deep within his chest. This went on for a few moments until he swiped moisture from the corners of his eyes. "Ah, little one, you are refreshing."

I grinned at him. "I try. So, now that we've established my ranking in the family totem pole, what brings ya' here."

Cyrnic offered a lazy grin. "I've come to learn the status of the Saxon Sex Gods tale."

That earned him a giggle and I got off the stool, heading for the refrigerator. "Well, so far each of you have each participated in separate orgies, played matchmaker, and been all around studly. Did I leave anything out?"

Cyrnic chuckled. "That is a very good start. What are you planning to do today?"

I shrugged and stretched, arms high above my head and spine popping softly. "I think that I'm going to go shopping."

Cyrnic was looking at me with that considering gaze that he sometimes uses on his father. He looked puzzled and seemed to be trying to figure something out.

"What?"

Cyrnic leaned against the island, propping his elbow on the granite and resting his chin on his hand. "You do realize that you declared Saxons sex gods."

I nodded.

"And yet you have no sex. Why?"

I gulped. Not a question I expected out of the Saxon prince. "Ummmm…."

Cyrnic straightened. "You are not poor looking, authoress. You have intelligence and can speak with some semblance of charm." He motioned for a drink and I handed him a beer, watching as he popped the cap off the beer bottle. "Do you not like men?"

I sputtered, flushing crimson. "I like men!" I declared hotly.

Cyrnic nodded. "Then there must be another reason. You could enjoy one of us."

I shuddered. "No offense, Cyrnic, but having sex with one of my muses is just…ick."

Cyrnic chuckled. "I'm sure that Lancelot is heartbroken."

"Yeah, right. Next topic."

The lean prince took a pull off the beer bottle. "And the knights? What do you write of them?"

I frowned. I was beginning to understand that Cyrnic was the advance force. Much like Tristan was scout when the knights went on campaign, Cyrnic had been tasked with scouting my mindframe. "Nice try, spy. Go do whatever it is that Saxon princes do. I ain't telling you anymore."

Cyrnic held up his hands in surrender. "Very well, authoress." He grinned, finished off the bottle of beer, and left the bottle behind. "Do not fear, we will not leave you alone."

I shuddered as the Saxon prince winked out of existence. That was exactly what I was afraid of.

TBC...

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**To My Wonderful Reviewers**

Saxongirl345: So glad that I caught Arthur. Here's more. Can't promise that the next chapters are going to come so quickly since it's back to the grindstone of the paying job on Monday. Today. Eek. And thanks for letting me know that you're enjoying. Yay!

Pastel Shades: So glad that you're enjoying. And glad that you laughed. Sorry for the sore tummy. Here's more, though this is just Cyrnic and Bridget. Please, keep your wonderful reviews coming.

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	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

Author's Note: Thank you to all of my wonderful, extravagant reviewers. Yes, this is just for fun. So please keep those reviews coming.

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**Muses Behaving Badly**

**Chapter Eleven: Time Out**

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I had seen the inside of my closet too many times. Sitting on the floor of my closet, head resting on my knees, I listened to the angry muttering in my room. What I couldn't figure out is why Cerdic and the knights had felt compelled to throw me into my closet and then rip apart my bedroom.

Had it been the orgy story?

No. Even though Arthur had been embarrassed at first, he did eventually warm to the idea of being a stud pre-Gueneviere. Okay, so that wasn't it.

Was it Cyrnic playing muse?

No. They couldn't complain about the fact that I was writing about them, no matter how smutty the stories might be. Again, not it.

What could it be?

Could it be…

I groaned and covered my eyes 'cause even in the darkness of the closet I didn't want to see. I had an inkling of why my muses were giving me a "time out." It had to be the pony-tailed drummer from New Zealand who I'd let out of the house just before dawn with a long, slow kiss. I'd given into temptation. No, I'd not had sex with one of my muses. Instead I'd had mind-blowing, mean-nothing sex with one of my ex-boyfriends--this one from New Zealand. It was in fact he who'd introduced me to the King Arthur movie. In any case, he'd shown up at the house with a box of condoms and a bottle of merlot and the rest, as they say, was history.

My muses hadn't been anywhere around while Mal was here, I considered ruefully. Which meant that they had made themselves scarce by choice. Oh but now they weren't being scarce.

"A drummer?" snarled Tristan through the closet door.

I sighed.

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The boys were not happy. Perhaps it was because I was hosting a playdate for my sister Maria's friends. A passel of two year olds invading the house was enough to make the fiercest of the knights quail. It didn't help that, for some reason, the children could see the knights.

And interact with them.

The boys had suffered for all of fifteen minutes before popping back out of sight and back to my mind or wherever they resided when not interacting with humanity.

Revenge was sweet. I have just a little sex and they lock me in a closet. They have sex, commit acts of torture, and wanton destruction and I had no recourse.

"Oh, Bridget, this was really nice of you to still hold this with your sister in Massachusetts," gushed a mom just a little over my age. I think her name was Peggy.

"No worries, Peggy. I don't mind having the kids over and Maria's got way too many toys for just one kid to play with." I grinned at the harried mom, did a quick check to make sure that all hell had not broken loose, and headed to the kitchen to make snacks for the moms and kids. After all, Mom always did a snack tray for the visitors to Maria's playdates and I wasn't about to break tradition.

Pushing open the swinging door to the kitchen, I paused at the smirking Cyrnic perched on my counter. "Having fun?"

Cyrnic nodded, taking a swig of his beer. "Aye. You had sex."

I nodded, moving to the fridge where I had a tray of already cut veggies in bags. Pulling it out, I set the tray on the counter and proceeded to prepare the tray. "Yup, though the Scafia and the knights weren't thrilled."

Cyrnic shrugged. "They just don't like your taste in men. After all, Mal was it?"

I nodded.

"Had more tattoos than Tristan, had hair longer than my father and was unsuitable as husband material," explained the Saxon prince.

I sighed. "Um, Cyrnic, that wasn't marriage, just mind-blowing sex. Now stay in here. Since you weren't involved in the 'lock Bridget in a closet to teach her the error of her ways for having sex that didn't involve a muse' I won't steer the kids towards you."

"Many thanks," chuckled Cyrnic as I headed back out.

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The kids were gone, the house once again cleaned up and I was now soaking in the tub, listening to Fields of the Nephilim, Kamelot and Within Temptation. After all, all three were wonderful inspiration and I was officially on downtime. I'd finished the rewrite of the manuscript, emailed the corrected document to my editor, and was just waiting for the next manuscript. See, the more I did, the bigger my paycheck. And if I kept on this way, my next paycheck would be more than enough for me to go in with three girlfriends from school to get a house instead of a shoebox apartment.

I turned off the tap and settled back into the cinnamon and sandalwood-scented bubbles. Tonight I was making lasagna, the pasta, meat, ricotta and parmesan filling the entire house with the wonderful smell of Italian cooking. Then I was going to settle in front of the computer and bang out at least one chapter on one of my stories.

Thank goodness I had a bag of dice of many varieties. I was going to decide which fandom I played with based on the roll of the dice.

Wonder if I would have any better luck than Lancelot with dice?

"You might," growled Lancelot.

Oh, boy.

TBC...

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**To My Wonderful Reviewers**

vampout: So glad you're enjoying. Here's more and let's hope that you keep liking.

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	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

Author's Note: Tristan, no biting the author. _**grin**_

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**Muses Behaving Badly**

**Chapter Twelve: The Mall**

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The mall. The most wonderful creation of modern society. I took a deep cleansing breath as I stepped into the air-conditioned luxury of mall. To my right was the smoothie shop, to the left a shoe store.

If there was a heaven, this just might be it. I started towards the shoe store, already itching to try the pair of ribboned red stilettos in the windows. Yup, those were a pair of "fuck-me-now" shoes and if I was going to go forward with my plan for getting some male attention, those would be the perfect beginning.

I stepped into the store, smiling at the handsome and obviously gay young man who hurried towards me.

"Good afternoon, miss. How can I help you?"

I grinned. "I want THOSE." I pointed at the shoes. "Size six, regular." The man ran to the back of the store and came back with a shoebox. Moments later I was seated, my sandals swapped out for the stilettos and the red ribbons wrapped up my calves.

"Darlin', these will have men drooling from here to Chicago," he crooned, swiping my credit card through his register. Moments later my sandals were tucked into my purse and I was continuing on with my shopping.

By the time that I had gotten to the food court, the peasant blouse and skirt were also gone. In their place was a little red, swishy dress that ended about three inches above the knee and actually made me look like a girl. Not a supermodel, mind you, but a girl. With curves and legs and hips and a butt. I'd already been propositioned by four handsome men with no wedding rings or tan lines on their left hand. So far the day was definitely looking up.

Dropping into a chair with a diet soda and a plastic bowl of sesame chicken, I mulled over the day. After kicking Lancelot out of the bathroom late last night, I had gone to bed. Fortunately the muses had left me alone after the bath incident. They'd been noticeably absent as I rolled out of bed, took a leisurely bath again, then dressed to go shopping.

Then I'd taken a wonderful drive alone to the mall. No one whispering in my ear or fiddling with the radio dial or commenting on my driving. No one complaining about my taste in men. I was free.

Now, with the tinny strains of Matchbox Twenty playing over the food court speakers, I took a bite of the sesame chicken lunch I'd purchased. Divine.

"Not quite," groused Bors, arms crossed over his chest as he glared at me.

I frowned and fished my Bluetooth headset out of my brand new handbag, slipping the earpiece onto my ear. If I was going to have to deal with my muses, let the people around me think that I was having a phone call, not a mental break. The light on the earpiece on to give the impression that I was on a call and the volume turned to zero, I turned to Bors. "I knew it was too good to last. What are you doing here, Bors? I didn't think about you. I was thinking about men in general and more particularly that fine specimen over there." I waved my hand in the general direction of a long-haired guy in snug jeans and a polo.

Bors frowned. "You need to go home."

I frowned. "I need to go home. Pray tell why."

Bors leaned forward. "Because if you do not come home immediately, Tristan will begin to play with Lancelot. Much as he did with Methos."

I blanched.

"He did not take kindly to Lancelot's liberties with you in the bath."

I shook my head. "But nothing happened," I squeaked, already getting to my feet.

Bors stood as well, sweeping my body from head to toe with his eyes. His dark eyes were hard when he met them again. "That clothing does not indicate that nothing happened."

Letting out a moan of frustration, I stormed off towards my car.

Last thing I needed was for Tristan to start playing "Ten Little Indians" with the knights and start eliminating them one by one. After all, there were only seven of them.

TBC...

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**To My Wonderful Reviewers**

Ysolde (And Tristan): It's not nice to kidnap my reviewers. And _**thanks**_ for showing how easy it is to send me into paroxysms of worry and angst. And, yes, Tristan, I know that you're Sarmatian. Not Scafia. However, your actor is Danish, and therefore Scafia. That's kind of the point. However, as you requested, you get to do something to Lancelot. See, I keep my word. You released Ysolde, you get Lancelot. Now don't hurt him. And as to the Scafia taking over Bridget's perceptions in the story, I have no idea what you're talking about. See, completely oblivious. _**evil grin**_

Saxongirl345: So glad you enjoyed. Yeah, can't you just see them doing that? Here's more and more is coming.

Pastel Shades: So glad that you're still enjoying. And as you suggested, they showed up while shopping. Hope you enjoyed.

cleopatra32003: You're not kidding. It would be interesting to see how the muses handle competition for their authoress's attentions. Here's more. And it was probably a sexy growl. Though it didn't help the lothario's cause.

vampout: So glad that you said that. Here's more and let's hope you keep saying that.

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	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

Author's Note: My husband has finally given up the ghost when it comes to this story. So, if any of you readers are willing to be a beta, let me know. Oh, and for the love of anything holy, please keep those reviews coming. I need the inspiration and the reinforcement since I have absolutely no confidence when it comes to my writing. So, please, please, please, keep them coming.

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Muses Behaving Badly

Chapter Thirteen: Lure

I had to give credit to Bors. He didn't mess with the radio or comment on my driving. Guess being with Vanora through eleven children had taught the big guy not to mess with a woman who was obviously on the verge of murder. As it was, the drive home was uneventful. The beltway was relatively clear of traffic and it took us approximately twenty minutes to get home from Tysons Corner mall.

Finally we were on the tree-lined street where my parent's house was located. The mp3 player hooked to my stereo had shifted to Sorten Muld's "Ulver," a Danish song with a Bluebeard-like scenario. I hummed softly with the song, tapping my fingers against the driver's wheel. I shot a pointed look at Bors who kept his eyes forward and his mouth shut. Pulling into the driveway, I hit the remote for the garage door and slid the car into the garage.

We both got out without saying a word, Bors grabbing my bags from the backseat without a word. Then we went inside. The kitchen butted up to the garage and was surprisingly empty. I waited until Bors had stepped into the kitchen before kicking the door shut with a bang.

"I'm home!" I shouted, slamming my purse down onto the kitchen table.

Still nothing and now Bors, being the intelligent man that he is, had vamoosed as well.

Joy.

Now it was a game of Marco Polo with the knights.

My stilettos clicked across the tile floor to the sink, where I poured myself a glass of water. Taking a sip, I closed my eyes and tried to formulate a plan. Sigh. No plan. I set the empty glass in the sink and turned to the living room, glancing out the sliding glass door to see if Lancelot was indeed hanging upside down from the apple tree like Methos.

No.

No Lancelot.

No Tristan happily torturing his brother in arms.

The living room was empty as well, though Rome was playing on the TV. I stepped to the television and turned it off. The house was deathly quiet. Maybe this had been a lure--wait, of course it had been a lure. Tristan threatens someone and I run like a chicken with my head cut off. When would I ever learn? Sighing, I began the search. First downstairs to the basement.

Tugging on the chain of the overhead light, I did a perfunctory sweep of the large underground room. It was all as I had left it. The exercise equipment was along one wall and the couches in front of the entertainment center were empty of knights. I walked to the bar in the corner and poured myself a shot of whiskey. Staring at the amber liquid, I considered my options. I could just leave Lancelot to his fate. After all, it wasn't like I was encouraging the lothario. Then there was the option to go and confront Tristan and make him let Lancelot go. Or I could bargain. I shuddered at the last option.

Gods only knew what Tristan or any of the other knights would take in trade to release Lancelot.

I threw back the whiskey, wincing at the burn as it slid down my throat. Another was poured and another hurtled down my throat. I sighed, setting the shot glass on the counter of the bar. I picked up the whiskey. Twenty-one years old. Dad had bought it when I was born and had cracked open the bottle on my twenty-first birthday. I sighed again, holding the bottle like a war club.

My stilettos echoed on the wood stairs as I climbed back up to the ground level. I started down the hallway, checking in Maria's playroom, the laundry room, the dining room, the family room. All was normal.

I frowned, looking towards the other half of the house. They weren't outside. They weren't in the basement. They weren't in the rooms that could have been termed "common rooms." The only other place that the muses could be was in the bedrooms.

But was it just Tristan involved? And was Lancelot really about to be tortured or was this some twisted "phone home" stunt? And were all the other knights involved? I rubbed my temple with the hand not currently occupied with holding the whiskey and shook my head. I was going to drive myself even more crazy than usual if I kept asking myself these questions and didn't just go Xena on these fifth-century children.

I started down the hallway, bottle held ready to bash into the head of anyone that came near. The hallway, like the rest of the house, was clear of any sign of the knights. I wasn't sure what I would do if I saw blood and entrails on the hardwood.

Thankfully I didn't have to deal with that.

I began to hum, softly, as I started down the hallway, pushing open doors. Maria's room was empty save all of her many stuffed animals. My brother's room, decorated with half-naked women pinned to the wall, was also empty. Next came my parent's room, since the master suite was in the middle of the other rooms. Nothing. I continued on, tightening my grip on the bottle. Then Dad's study, where he wrote his papers on international law and Mom's sewing/reading room. Both also empty.

That only left the bathrooms and my room.

I toed open the bathroom doors.

Nothing.

That left my bedroom.

Shit.

The door was closed, which meant that I couldn't just push it open. The knights, if they were all in my room, which I was seriously beginning to doubt, would be able to see me coming in because the knob would turn. Shaking my head, I headed back to my brother's room. Aside from being a connoisseur of porn, my brother was a baseball player. He played left field. Go figure.

Picking up his baseball bat, I headed back to my bedroom. The whiskey tucked in the crook of my arm and the baseball bat gripped in the other, I turned the knob and pushed the door open as fast as I could.

A pair of hands came out and caught me, slamming me against the wall at the side of the door as the door was shut with a bang. The Louisville slugger fell to the ground harmlessly. As did the bottle of whiskey, the bottle rolling unharmed on the thick rug spread across the wood floor.

I blinked, my head ringing from hitting it against the wall, and looked up at Cerdic, the man pinning me to the wall. I had forgotten how intimidating this Saxon was when he was pressed up against you. Forget intimidating, just…overwhelming.

"I believe that you told us we could not torture you," rumbled Cerdic, blue eyes glittering.

I nodded meekly.

Tristan padded forward.

Damn, a trap.

"Care to reconsider?" purred Tristan beside my ear.

TBC...

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Ysolde: Yup. That he would. And, you're right. Mom's Irish and Scandinavian (hence why I'm part Scandinavian) and they were always invading each other. Talk about cross-pollination. Explains the similarity in art as well. And yes, as a holder of a Bachelor of Arts in Archaeology and Folklore (congrats on the certificate!), you are allowed to run amuck.

Saxongirl1345: You're right. Thanks though. Glad you liked it. Don't worry, we're getting more in the next chapter. And boy were you right about something being about to happen. Good eye.

Cleopatra32003: Tristan playing almost anything is a frightening thought. And thank you. Blame the fact that I work for the cellular industry. And I doubt you'd ever look like a crazy person. Thank you.

Pastel Shades: So glad that you're enjoying. May this brighten your Thursday too.

Gargoyle13: So glad that you're enjoying. And, no, you're not the only one with muses like that. And be careful about letting them eat the three chocolate pudding cups from Swiss Miss--you'll never hear the end of it if you run out. And apologies for the Really Old Guy showing up. May he behave better for you than for me.


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

Author's Note: Thank you to my reviewers. I got kind of stuck after the last chapter, which explains why there hasn't been an update in, what, eleven days. In any case, thank you to those of you have reviewed for they gave me inspiration for more chapters. As always, responses to your wonderful comments is at the end of the chapter. And, thank you.

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**Muses Behaving Badly**

**Chapter Fourteen: Menthol**

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I inhaled on the cigarette, loving the burn as the smoke wandered down my throat and into my lungs. The menthol tang was in the air and my fingers had a decidedly yellowed tinge.

I didn't smoke often.

It was a habit that I'd picked up in freshman year while going to frat parties as an underaged girl since I was also the designated driver in most cases. If I couldn't drink, then I would smoke. I tapped the ash into the can beside me and once again resumed my illicit puffing.

As I said, I don't smoke often. Stress tends to be a cause as often as not.

Oh, and torture.

Cerdic intent on hurting me was not a pretty thing. Okay, it was actually a very pretty thing. What had I been thinking when I let him become one of my muses?

My brother, the one with the porn fetish and the baseball paraphernalia, has never understood why I like the Saxons. He's watched the movie with me at least once and advised me that the Saxons were homicidal maniacs.

I'd actually said that they were misunderstood.

I now knew better.

I slowly got to my feet, rolling my neck and shoulders as I stood.

Had it really been twenty-four hours since I'd been trapped in my own bedroom with a Saxon and a scout? By the time that I'd finally staggered down the hallway from my bedroom, my answering machine was blinking with an obscene amount of messages and I finally understood Stockholm Syndrome.

Fortunately for me, the torture session had been interrupted by an apparent muse union meeting.

And who knew that the most horrid torture that those two could come up with was making me watch Barney.

I was never, ever going to do anything to piss off those two again.

Ever.

I crushed out the cigarette and plucked another from the pack, quickly situating it between my lips and scorching the end with my lighter until the cigarette end glowed a cheery orange. I dropped back onto the step, cigarette firmly clamped between my lips and cigarettes and lighter now in hand to avoid having to get up from my next cancer stick.

"You shouldn't smoke," offered Lancelot, looking disapprovingly at the cigarette.

I raised an eyebrow. "For a man who was going to be tortured, you look remarkably fit. I would have thought you would have run."

Lancelot shook his head and sprawled on the steps beside me. "You came home. I was released. Much like a prisoner exchange," he explained, taking a pull from the wineskin that had somehow appeared.

I nodded and took another drag off the cigarette. "Sure."

Lancelot frowned at my tone. It was a combination of acceptance and irony. "What **exactly** did Tristan and Cerdic do?"

I blinked. "They made me watch the Power Rangers, Barney, and Spongebob. I am now their obedient slave."

Lancelot swearing is funny.

Really funny.

The End (for now)

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**To My Wonderful Reviewers**

Ysolde: Sorry about the cliffhanger and I hope that Mongolia was fantastic. Hope when you get back, you like it.

Saxongirl345: No, not well. I too feel sorry for her. And I'm writing this thing. (sigh)

Cleopatra32003: Yup. Nope. Didn't have to work the dress and stilettos. Though there was no sex. (damn.)

Gargoyle13: Thank you! I am so thrilled to have a beta since my husband has been completely squicked by my writing a first person story with "lust-after-hunky-fifth-century-muses-and-possibly-get-ravished-by-aforesaid-hunky-men." And thank you for being willing to give opinions and allow ideas to be bounced. Now, as to your review. Sorry for twisting your tummy. But haven't all of us found ourselves tortured by our muses (I know I have). No, not kind. And, yes, very good with the bait and switch. As to "behave"--I finally had to resort to playing Tom Smith as loud as I could until my muses ran for cover. Didn't help that I know every single word. And try Nigel Terry's Arthur from Excalibur. He tends to kick everyone's ass. (grin)

C.J. Davis: Thank you. You got me to write the next chapter and get my muses to actually work on this. I'm glad that I can help and I'll keep going as long as I can have more Heart of Time. Sounds like a fair trade. Oh, and sorry. Just tell Methos to play nice. Sorry that I stopped where I did--my muses abandoned me in favor of going to Disneyland. In other words, they wanted to work on other stories. So glad you are enjoying. And, don't worry, I do the same thing and then have to practically duct tape my mouth shut as I read fic. And hope the torture was bad enough (as a mom, I dread those shows).

Pastel Shades: So glad that you're enjoying. Of course you can take her place. Though I don't think you'd want to with what they put her through. Thanks for the offer of being a beta, but Gargoyle13 contacted me first. Again, thanks for the offer and here's hoping you continue to enjoy.

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